Shades of Gray
by Echeziel
Summary: Non-Brisingr compliant; Post-Eldest//What do sides mean, really? Good or bad, black or white? Is there really a difference? Both sides are fighting for what they believe in, what they think is right. I am Murtagh, Morzan’s son, and this is my story//
1. Prologue

What do sides mean, really? Good or bad, black or white? Is there really a difference? Both sides are fighting for what they believe in, what they think is right. It's not _really _just black or white.

That's what people don't get, you see. There are millions of shades of gray. They don't see it; oh no, of course not. Our side is evil; bad, bad, always. Hah! They don't even know that it's like to live for Galbatorix, to do his dirty work!

They shouldn't be talking about anything until they've experienced it firsthand.

My name is Murtagh, I am a Rider, and Thorn is my dragon. I am the son of Morzan, who was one of the thirteen Forsworn, as well as Galbatorix's right-hand man until he was murdered by Brom.

Our side is not bad. It's dark, yeah. We do underhanded things to get what we want, sure, but everyone does, even the Varden.

Galbatorix is the king of Alegaesia. People see him as insane. Let me tell you something: he is. However, it's not just him. Shruiken is the mastermind behind it all; Galbatorix is merely his pawn. It's eerie, really, but the sad thing is, as smart and cunning and paranoid as the king is, Galbatorix has no idea what his dragon is doing to him.

Eragon, my brother, is the same as me. He's on the side of 'good'. It's not really good. The Varden don't want to just protect the people and overthrow Galbatorix. They want to change all of Alagaesia.

What I meant by mentioning the many shades of gray is that not all people are on the side of 'good' or 'bad' because they want to be. Some are bound in ways that you could never even begin to imagine. Some are forced to pick a side on account of a debt or some other issue that is tying them to the side that they don't want to be on. Some just feel obligated because a spouse or other family member supports that side. And some are just mindless pawns of one side, not caring either way, figuring that one will win, that an ancient saying, such as 'the strongest will survive' will come true.

That may be true, sure. But that saying doesn't necessarily take into account the thousands that die for each side. That lose their sanity and wills just to serve those that think that it's in their right to take control of another's lives, or many lives.

I am one such person, one of those who dwells in the millions of shades of gray.

I am Murtagh, Morzan's son, and this is my story.


	2. Chapter 1

Scales gleamed like garnet as his great body twisted and performed acrobatics of amazing skill. Those very scales shimmered from the rays of the sun, lighting the sky on fire. The iridescent ruby shined like a thousand flaming suns dancing upon an endless ocean of blue. Each scale seemed to have its own glistening story, drawing you in, your eyes staring, staring, like you have no choice. It hurts; the sheer intensity of the burgundy scales, their own internal radiant fire, is enough to burn your eyes. The sight of the great beast, however, entrances you. You're compelled to watch; you can't look away.

The owner of such scales, a dragon of gigantic proportions, let loose a huge fireball of flame hot enough to melt even the most resistant of metals, the blaze strong enough to be from the belly of a volcano. The inferno ate at the sky, burning, burning. It lapped, scorched, and maimed the very air that it was released in, too hot to be ignored.

I watched this spectacle from the roof of the palace; my eyes took in what the citizens were seeing. I spotted their faces looking skywards at the magnificent display in the normally drab sky. My dragon's flame heated their hearts with an emotion that I could not name. Passion, perhaps. Excitement; fear. Possibly a horridly gripping terror of the unknown, the fright of what was once mere legend come to be truth; dragons did exist. From this small exhibition, even the menial minds of peasant could understand the basic instincts to run, hide, to get away from the awesome power of beasts of myth come to life. It has certainly been to long since these people knew true terror; instead of running for their life as they should, they stop their mindless tasks to watch something that could easily wipe their existence off the face of the earth.

Letting out a scathing laugh, I closed my eyes. The people of Uru'baen were just idiots, really. Thorn and I…we could kill them in one shot. They'd die. Each of them could die quickly with one mighty swipe of Thorn's talons, or drag it out with one of my many spells. We weren't allowed, of course, but…knowing that you held the power to be able to do so with simply…intoxicating.

I could already smell the burn of bodies and wood; the crackle as carefully constructed and well-loved homes went up in flames that licked the sky in a blazing inferno. I could hear the screams of people and the cries of children as we attacked their home. Thorn and I had witnessed such a demonstration too many times. We knew what would happen.

What could we do, though? We followed orders as we were tightly bound to do. Despite our hatred towards the very man we're bound to, it does nothing. His wish is our command. If he wants a village burned, it's done. If he wants a noble killed, the noble is gone. If he wants entertainment in the form of the two of us fighting or performing aerial acrobatics, it will be done. If he wants my brother and the charming sapphire dragon he calls Sapphira…so be it.

Drawing in a deep breath, I nimbly jump off the roof and scale the side of the palace to drop to the ground. Breaking into a full-our sprint, I ran to my personal wing of the palace and easily climbed up to my third-story balcony. Shaking my head as I swung over the elegant railing, I entered my chambers, at once grateful for the gloom. Using the most basic of magic, I lit a candle to flicker slightly and unclasped my cloak, letting it slide off my shoulder and the maroon silk fit for a prince pool on the ground. Let the servants pick it up; it doesn't matter to me. I sat on the edge of the gigantic bed, and removed my boots made of the dyed-black hide of skinned Urgals, so that they withstood many elements of nature. I shrugged out of my jacket, letting that fall on my bed, and absently slipped my fine tunic off over my head. Back then, I was almost mindless. It was a real shame, I think, because I could have been gathering more information about everything so that I could have found an easier way for Thorn and I to escape our bindings, but alas, we were jaded to the fact that there was, in fact, quite a few ways to do so.

Stretching, I ran a hand through my inky-black hair, tangled and mussed as always. I slowly made my way back to the balcony which overlooked the courtyard where Thorn resided, as he despised the keep where Shruiken lived, along with the fact that he hated said colossal black dragon with a passion that rivaled that of my burning hatred for Galbatorix. We polished those gems of our hatred, letting them take residence in our hearts and become as precious as the most valuable of jewels. They eventually turned us as harsh as the barren wastelands to the north, well past Du Weldenvarden that I had only glimpsed on the rarest of maps.

I sat on the iron railing of the dark veranda and waited for my partner to finish his stretches for the day, as dusk was upon us already.

After a good chunk of time which I had spent brooding, as I am unfortunately prone to do, Thorn made himself known. His immense wings created intense gusts of wind, causing my haphazard hairstyle to become even worse. Once his feet touched the ground, he snorted a cloud of smoke, leftover from his flame throwing earlier.

He stared at me with his eyes as deep as garnet that hung at an elven woman's breast, from the best of the dwarven craftsmen. They were full of wisdom forced upon his with magics as black as the King's heart. He became old too early, when he should have been a hatchling. His eyes were a reflection of his life; they held heart-wrenching sadness and puzzlement. He didn't know what his body was doing; Shruiken was no help in that matter, as he was not forced to grow the size of the largest dragons in under a year. Not that the obsidian dragon would help, even if he could. That particular dragon's heart was blacker than even the King's. Thorn wasn't the mindless killing machine that all of Alegaesia cast him as; he was my best friend; a confidant. He had a heart of gold and a personality to match. Like me, he dredged up a personality full of lies and deceit, blasphemy of the darkest kind, to hide what he truly was. He forced himself to _become _that killing machine, because that was what was expected of him. What was _forced _upon him. Galbatorix wanted another Shruiken under his command; cold, heartless, manipulative. Thorn wasn't that, but slowly, that's what the both of us were becoming. We were tired of hiding our true selves that were slowly diminishing, dying as they were locked away in the deepest recesses of our consciousness.

I wanted to tell Thorn that it would be alright; but I couldn't make that assurance. I didn't want to tell more lies. We didn't know for sure. Who _could _know? I wanted to weep for my dragon; I wanted to weep for me. We were dying. Or, to be more specific, _Murtagh _and _Thorn _were dying. Our pseudo-selves were constantly growing and becoming real. We would just be other terrors unleashed upon the world to bring terror to the hearts of all who spied us.

Putting on a dry smile, one that held no happiness whatsoever, I placed my hand against Thorn's forehead, the entire length of my hand not even covering half of his forehead. His great crimson eyes stained with the blood of our 'enemies' stared into my own dark ones, stalked by shadows.

He wanted help, wanted to become himself, not what he was forced to become.

The problem was that I couldn't give him that help.

Resting my own forehead against his, I closed my eyes, if just for a moment. I swore to him, then, as well as to myself. I would find a way to save us, whatever it took. No matter what, we'd be free from this, one day.

How naïve I was, even then.


End file.
